


Absolutely Starving

by sixteenpsyche



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26166664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixteenpsyche/pseuds/sixteenpsyche
Summary: By the time it is dark enough that the room is black except for the unbearably bright glow of the TV screen, Jisung gives up and decides he will break first. He picks up his phone and types, “Are you still out?” and hits send before he can change his mind. He has not eaten, and he does not have an appetite, but he follows up two minutes later with, “Can you bring something to eat with you?” It is the least-embarrassing way he can ask Minho to come over and fuck him again.(3K words of smut. That's it.)
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 6
Kudos: 232





	Absolutely Starving

“You want me to dump my nuts in your throat?”

The memory of those words hits Jisung like a slap to the face. His skin prickles into gooseflesh and, somehow, his teeth hurt. Phantom pain, he guesses, from the memory of how Minho pressed the pads of his thumbs onto the tops of his molars, urging Jisung to open his mouth wider, wider. 

He is all alone in his bedroom. Minho has been texting him relentlessly all day, aggressively needy like every fuckboy on Tinder. But because it is Minho, it is different. Endearing. 

Still, Jisung does not answer. He is afraid of what might be said, after last night. After Jisung said those three words so earnestly, so open-heatedly, for reasons he cannot begin to explain. After Minho’s silence and his unreadable expression. It was too embarrassing, too unbelievable to even begin to address over-the-phone. Jisung does not love Minho—well, he is not in love with him, at least. It is ridiculous; he is barely 20, he has never been in love with anyone. He does not know what that, love, would even feel like. And what he feels for Minho is not the same thing the actresses in dramas describe feeling. No, it is more like a slap to the face. The sensation of gooseflesh. 

Jisung’s phone rings, and he sighs. Minho is clearly in a mood, and he is refusing to be ignored. Jisung’s teeth still hurt when he responds, “What do you want? I’m watching TV.” 

“Why are you avoiding me, Jisungie? I thought you loved me?” Minho’s voice is a purr, and it makes Jisung shift in his seat. He did not expect to be mocked, and it pisses him off and turns him on at the same time. 

“Shut up. I never said that,” he lies. “I’m not avoiding you. If you want to come over and watch TV with me, you can.” Jisung is incredulous even as the words come out of his own mouth. It is as if his body is on autopilot with Minho. 

The other man grunts. “Not likely. I’m gaming.” 

Jisung frowns. “In a cafe?” Minho hums affirmatively, and Jisung scoffs. “So why are you bothering me?” He is grossed out by the idea of Minho sitting in a cafe, on a public computer, texting him, calling him. “I’m going now,” Jisung says quickly before hanging up. He braces himself for the inevitable call-back and barrage of texts (“Respond. Respond. Respond.”) but they never come. Two hours later, and he is still sitting on the sofa, still waiting for the opportunity to pretend to ignore Minho. 

By the time it is dark enough that the room is black except for the unbearably bright glow of the TV screen, Jisung gives up and decides he will break first. He picks up his phone and types, “Are you still out?” and hits send before he can change his mind. He has not eaten, and he does not have an appetite, but he follows up two minutes later with, “Can you bring something to eat with you?” It is the least-embarrassing way he can ask Minho to come over and fuck him again. 

Finally, a prompt response. “You still haven’t eaten?” Jisung smiles—Minho is not as mysterious and unknowable as he would like to think. He plays it up with the next text, “No … I didn’t even realize the time.” And he swears he can hear Minho suck his teeth in annoyance (and concern.) 

“Fine. I’ll be there in an hour, maybe less.” Jisung tosses his phone onto the couch and jumps up. He has not done anything all day except watch TV and think about Minho (which, to be fair, is a typical day for him), so he needs to wash up and get dressed. As he is showering, he overthinks everything, wondering what he should wear, what he should say, how he should act. He decides to wear something that makes it look like he does not care—sweatpants and a t-shirt—but the shirt is a little short, a little small, maybe a little sexy. He blow-dries and styles his hair, not because he cares what he looks like for Minho, but because he does not want Minho to know he took a shower. 

It is almost pathological, at this point, the hoops he jumps through to assure himself that he is cool, that it is no big deal. So when he hears Minho’s voice behind him as he is frantically applying CC cream to his face—a last-second decision he argued with himself about for ten minutes—his gut drops. 

“You didn’t have to get pretty for me. You know I think Jisungie is pretty even without makeup.” 

Jisung’s ears are burning, and his hands are trembling because he feels so ashamed and excited and confused, but he pushes all those emotions down. He finishes his face, slowly, and walks past Minho into the bathroom without saying a word. He was half-expecting to be grabbed on the way there, but Minho steps back to allow him plenty of room to pass. Jisung washes his hands and examines himself in the mirror. His face is flushed. He is so fucked.

When he exits the bathroom, he makes a beeline for the kitchen island where he sees the food. It smells so deeply unappetizing that he is not sure he can pretend eat. Still, he perches on a stool and breaks the disposable chopsticks in two. Minho appears, stalking around as silently as his cats. He smirks at Jisung and watches him not eat. He, pointedly, also does not eat. The food cools as they sit in silence for at least five minutes. Jisung feels the weight of Minho’s stare on him, and he knows what is expected of him. He feels himself slipping into that funny in-between space he often finds himself in when he is with Minho. He finally puts his chopsticks down, defeated. Minho picks up on the cue. 

“What’s wrong? You aren’t hungry?” Minho’s hands are on him, suddenly, gently carding through his hair. Jisung shakes his head, and Minho sighs. “I see. Telling a lie, then, to get me to come over?” Jisung nods. “Well, that’s disappointing. I’ll have to punish you for that. You’ll have to eat something for me before I fuck you.” Jisung whines, involuntarily, and tries to slide down from the stool, but Minho stops him with his hands on his waist. 

“Please don’t. I’ll be sick. I’m not hungry,” Jisung protests, leaning back against Minho’s solid chest. The other man’s hands travel down to his hips and press in, tickling him. His voice is soft, but slightly menacing when he responds, “Don’t worry, it won’t make you sick. It’s your favorite treat.” 

He steps away and Jisung has to react quickly to keep himself from falling backward. After he has righted himself, he turns and looks at Minho fully. The man is unbuckling his belt, unzipping his jeans, and pulling his half-hard cock free. Jisung is up and down again, on his knees in front of Minho before he realizes what he is doing. He licks his lips and parts them slightly, so he knows they look pouty—posing, trying to look sexy. Like usual. 

Minho mimics him, licking his own lips before saying, “Look at that. You’re like my cats when I open a Churu. You come running right over, don’t you, kitten?” Jisung winces because he hates being compared to those fucking cats. But he does not protest aloud, keeping his mouth open. 

Minho puts his cupped hand palm-up under Jisung’s chin. Without being told what to do, Jisung looks down and spits in Minho’s palm once, twice. At first, he hated that. He hates saliva; it grosses him out so much he could barely kiss Minho properly for weeks when they first started sleeping together. Now, though, when he is in his in-between space, he does not have likes or dislikes. He just does what is expected on him, because it is better that way. It makes them both happy. 

Minho brings his spit-slick hand to his cock and begins jerking off. Jisung watches intently, biting his lip and squeezing his thighs together. His own cock is already mostly-stiff in his sweatpants, which he knows is pathetic. He gets hard with the slightest provocation when he is with Minho—when they are kissing, or when Minho says something filthy, or when he feels Minho press against him from behind. He knows better than to touch his cock with his hands, but the pressure of his thighs is good enough for now. 

Once Minho is fully hard, Jisung scoots closer, face inches from what he is certain is the prettiest, most perfect dick in the world. He licks his lips again and opens his mouth a little wider, but he is not surprised when Minho fails to slip the head in. Instead, he feels the weight of it against his cheek with a slap. His ears burn. Another slap, and another, and then Minho’s fingers are in his mouth, thumbs forcing his jaw down and open, caressing the molars and the gums and the insides of his cheeks. Jisung drools a little, and some part of him is still disgusted, but that does not matter now. Minho pulls away and near again, and soon enough the full length of him is in Jisung’s mouth, at the entrance of his throat. His gag reflex does not activate—all of his self-preservation instincts are diminished when he is with Minho. He feels a hand at the back of his head, holding him in place, and he braces himself to be used, eyes glazing over, hands limp on his thighs. 

Minho sneers at him, more cocky than unkind, “What a good little Fleshlight you are, Jisungie. Do you want it? Your favorite treat? Down in your tummy? Or do you want it up your cunt?” 

Jisung shakes his head, unsure of what his response is. It does not matter. Minho will choose for him. He speaks again, “I see. You want my cock up your cunt. Well, I’ll do that for you.” He pauses, and it is loaded. “Because I love you.” Jisung’s eyes prick with tears of humiliation and effort, but he does not move. Minho huffs and pulls back, slowly, dick popping out of Jisung’s mouth. “Go to the bedroom. Get naked and wait on your knees on the bed.”

Jisung obeys, and as he is waiting he locates the lube and the condoms, but he throws the latter into his mess of a closet so Minho will not be able to find them. He wants it bareback. He does not care about anything else—safe sex, ease of clean-up. He needs to be filled up. 

Minho does not come in for a long time (or, it seems that way), but Jisung does not dare to get up and go look for him. Instead, he decides to help, to be a good boy, and stretches himself. It is not his fault that it starts to feel too good, and he cannot resist, and he starts fucking himself on his fingers. He is just a greedy, naughty kitten after all.

By the time Minho’s frame darkens Jisung’s doorway, he is already most of the way to coming. He stops when he senses Minho’s presence, and bunches his hands in the bedsheets. “Disgusting,” Minho scolds as he approaches the bed. “Wiping your dirty little hands on your own bedsheets.”

Jisung protests, “I’m not dirty! I got cleaned up before you came over. I’m n-not dirty.” He pulls himself up so he is on his knees, as was commanded. Minho sits on the bed and plants a kiss on his shoulder. “I know you’re not, dirty, Jisungie. You’re just filthy. You’re a slut, aren’t you?” Jisung nods. “You’re just another desperate, slutty little girl who fingers herself thinking about me,” Minho mumbles, kissing Jisung more on his shoulder, then his neck and jaw, and finally his lips. They do not kiss for very long, because Jisung can tell Minho is eager to get started again. When he pulls away, he pulls Jisung with him, to the edge of the bed. 

“You have two choices. There’s no wrong answer. One, you can lie on your back with your head hanging over the edge of the mattress while I fuck your throat. Or two, you can lie on your tummy.” Jisung frowns, unsure. It hurts more when takes it upside down, but he likes how used it makes him feel. He decides for arousal over comfort. “Number one,” he answers in his sweetest, smallest voice. The way Minho grins at that tells him that there was a right answer, and he chose it. 

They adjust until he is in the perfect position, and Minho slides his cock in as far as he can. It is uncomfortable for Jisung, he cannot breathe as well as he would like with Minho’s balls thumping against his face, but he is painfully hard. He fumbles around and lifts his knees and ass until he finds a slant where he can probe at his hole. His fingers are not long enough for him to reach his prostate at this angle, but the sensation of being stretched open is enough. After what seems like an eternity, Minho pulls back. He’s panting and Jisung is proud that he’s the cause of Minho’s unravelling. 

“Are you fingering your little pussy while I use your mouth? You need my cock that bad? I can’t be in both holes at once, silly little slut.” His words catch Jisung off guard, and he moans, bringing his knees up reflexively. Minho rolls him over, effortlessly, so he is on his stomach. Minho gets behind him on the bed and lifts Jisung’s hips and pulls him back. Once his ass is in front of Minho, he feels his cheeks being spread and something cold and wet at his hole. Minho uses so much lube that they go through a little bottle every fortnight, but Jisung does not mind. 

“You’re already so stretched out and sloppy, kitten. If you like that, maybe we can invite some of my friends over? They’ll use you up and I can have sloppy thirds. Is that what you want?” Jisung wrinkles his nose. He hates Minho’s friends. Weird, smelly otakus. The thought of them fucking him makes him feel dirty, even dirtier than the dried spit and precome on his chin and the way his makeup has rubbed off all over the bedsheets. 

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t like it. You just took so long …” he trails off, not daring to look at Minho, because he knows the other man is giving him his full attention. He rarely gets that in their daily lives when they are not fucking, and it is difficult to cope with being under the weight of his stare. 

Minho does not respond. Instead, he hefts himself up and lines the head of his cock with Jisung’s swollen hole and sinks in. He growls, literally growls, and Jisung wails into the crook of his arm. The pace is brutal, because Minho is annoyed at him, and because he is impatient (even though he would never admit that.) Jisung can tell he is not going to last long because his hips are already stuttering, faltering in their rhythm. He loves knowing that he is the one who did this to Minho—he is the one who made him so hard, so careless, so hungry. Absolutely starving. 

“Jisungie. Come for me. I want to feel it. Come on, get yourself off,” Minho almost whines, and Jisung immediately snakes a hand between his thighs and jerks himself off. He comes so quickly, just from being touched, and so violently that his vision blacks out for a good ten seconds after. His whole body is trembling from the effort, muscles shaking uncontrollably, but Minho does not let up, because Jisung’s hole is now a means to an end. 

Jisung loves when it gets to this point. When Minho’s higher functions cease and he becomes an animal, using another animal for pleasure. He starts mindlessly swearing, calling Jisung a slut, kitten, bitch, and, interestingly, onahole (Jisung really, really hates Minho’s friends.) 

He feels so good, so proud, and he wants Minho to come as well as he did. So he says, “Minho-ah, come in me, like you promised. Breed me. Knock me up with your kittens.” 

He doesn’t know where that came from, but it seems to do it; Minho moans, pulls out, and almost falls as he scrambles to get off the bed. He fills up Jisung’s field of vision, and his hand is on Jisung’s jaw. “Open up. Dinnertime. I told you you were eating.” Jisung obeys, opening his mouth and closing his eyes, and he feels the hot come before he tastes it. Some does get in his mouth, of course, but much of it lands elsewhere on his face. It feels like it goes on forever—Minho always comes so much—but when it is over he says, “Don’t open your eyes. You’ve got come in your lashes. Hang on.” Jisung hears him walk away and return, and feels a warm, wet cloth on his face.

“I’m sorry your makeup got ruined, kitten. You looked so pretty for me. Thank you,” Minho’s voice is quiet, almost reverent, and he kisses Jisung’s forehead once he’s finished. “That was good. Did you have fun? Did it feel good?” 

Jisung nods. “Yeah, I had fun. Thanks for bringing me food, too. I’ll eat it for lunch tomorrow.” 

It always feels so awkward after, when they have to act normal around each other and pretend like they did not just have raunchy sex. He begins to say something else, to ask if Minho wants to stay the night in his bed, to ask if he is really annoyed at him, to ask—but he’s cut off by a kiss that is so disarmingly sweet it makes his heart ache. His face is warm after, and his gaze meets Minho’s. “I love you, Jisung.” 

Jisung only knows one way to respond to that. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
